Truth
by Artemisdesari
Summary: Follow on from Angel, part four of the Hand of Sorrow verse. Dean and Sam find somewhere to hide, Castiel tries to deal with things. Now COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

_Follow on from Angel, part four of the Hand of Sorrow Verse. _

_So I said Monday, didn't I? I lied. I got this finished sooner than I thought (and by finished I mean the fic, not the chapter) and because I'm not one to let things sit and fester, I figured I would share with the class. The song lyrics at the beginning and end of each chapter are from Truth by Seether._

_**Disclaimer:** I keep praying to the Almighty Kripke that I will be given them and it never happens, so I am a meer worshiper who plays with his toys. Likewise I don't own the song._

Truth.

_**If I gave you the truth  
Would it keep you alive  
Though I'm closer to wrong  
I'm no further from right  
And now I'm convinced on the inside that something's wrong with me  
Convinced on the inside, you're so much more than me**_

Dean knows that there is something wrong with Castiel, something beyond the obvious injuries and the memories of what was done to him in that dark little room. Knows that there is something that Castiel is not telling them because he has been jumpy these last few days, jumpy and angry and just _not like Cas_. Not like him in the sense that he pushes Dean away when he tries to check stitches and injuries, not like him in the sense that he sits and stares at nothing for hours on end without comment or acknowledgement of any of the others in the car with him. Not like Castiel at all. Because Castiel does not mope, Castiel does not get angry, Castiel does not get afraid. All of this is freaking Dean out, really freaking him out and now he no longer has Katie in the back to distract him and worry him with how she is coping with being told that she can never go home. Ellen had been angry, and not in the sense of slightly bemused. She was angry enough to greet them with a shotgun, angry words along the lines of them disappearing with barely a word after Yellow Eyes was killed, Dean dying, coming back to life and they still waited a year before getting in contact with her and only then because they needed help. Fortunately she had still agreed to take Katie in, not taking her anger with them out on the girl and that left him free, so that his focus is almost entirely on Castiel, on where they can all go to avoid the other angels and lie low until he is healed more.

Which is something else. Castiel's creepy angel mojo does not seem to be working, or not working right, because Dean has seen Cas come back from worse than this, knows that punching the angel is like striking a brick wall so these cuts and slashes should be almost healed at least by now. They are no where near it and Dean wonders if that is not one of the reasons that Castiel will not let him near them, wonders if Castiel is regretting ever choosing to help them, with everything that he has lost and is losing and Dean wants to ask _needs_ to ask about Jimmy, because even if Castiel is broken and the hunter has no real way to help him, no real way to fix him without delving into memories and emotions that he would rather not touch with a twenty foot pole, Dean at least needs the comfort of knowing that Jimmy is either oblivious to what has happened to his body, or that he is dead and gone, because somehow the idea that the devout family man has suffered for Castiel's decision and Dean's hard, angry, words, makes the whole situation that much worse. Dean would rather live with the knowledge that Jimmy is dead, than the guilt that his demands have put him through _that_. He will not ask, however, because whenever he does speak to the angel these days he does not get a response much past monosyllables and he can tell that even Sam is coming out of his 'I set Lucifer free' funk enough to notice that something is very wrong.

He knows that Sam has tried to talk to the angel at least once in the last day or so, knows because he could hear Castiel's answer of "I do not _need_ your pity," across the parking lot as he brought food back to the motel room for the two human occupants, wondered if maybe he should turn back and wait for a moment, but the door had opened and Sam had spotted him, muttered something about Cas being Dean's angel and he should deal with him, and traded places, taking a walk and leaving Dean with an angel who neither knows how, nor wants to express emotions. It is an experience that neither Winchester wants to repeat just yet, so neither has broached the subject again, just bundling Cas into the car each morning after yet another fight to be allowed to check on his wounds and Dean wishes that they would heal already, or that Cas would get out of this mood of his, because it is getting old and as much as Dean owes the angel he is about ready to tell him to take care of himself for a while so that both boys can catch a break. He will not, however, because he _does_ owe the angel, and it is his fault, at least a little, that Castiel is in this position, so he holds his tongue, because he understands to a degree what the angel is going through, remembers the same frustration and fear and anger at the world when he first got back from Hell, first started to really recall what had happened and because of this, he knows that it is not his place to push, and not Sam's place to question and eventually Castiel will open up or deal on his own. Dean is good with either option because sometimes such chick flick moments are acceptable.

Between now and then, however, they will drive, drive until they find somewhere remote and abandoned where they can hole up for a few days. Would rather go to Bobby's place with it's demon proof panic room and massive library, except that the angels know about Bobby's place and Bobby does not exactly _like_ Cas, not with the whole first meeting and general Winchester manipulation that he had going for a while so that is another reason not to go there, not with the angel being less than his usually serene self, where everything is bubbling just below the surface and Dean is worried, afraid, that it will all surface soon, because just as Castiel has no experience with _actual_ emotions, he has no experience in controlling them either and if Winchesters can be explosive when they bottle things up for too long, he dreads what a confused, frightened, angel will do, so they need to find somewhere, soon, hex bags and continual movement can only do so much against the forces of heaven and hell combined and Dean does not need to have both of them on his ass while he tries to fix Sam and fix Cas and fix himself, although he is beginning to think that he is too far gone anyway, and Sam is quickly headed that way and he has no idea about the angel.

So he drives, drives aimlessly around back roads and through little towns. Drives until he finds what he needs, a house, long abandoned, long forgotten. Dusty and rotten and full of rats and insects and mould. It may not be the most stable place for them to be, but at least it is out of the way, at least it is not the home of anyone that they know and they are not putting anyone else in danger. They can hide here and at the moment, hiding is the only option, the only thing that they can do until the muttered 'fine' that comes from all corners every day is as close to the truth as possible, though it will never be true and Dean knows that, he just needs things to be right. He needs Castiel to be right, is worried that he will never be able to make it right.

_**No**_

No there's nothing you say that can salvage the lie  
But I'm trying to keep my intentions disguised  
And now I'm deprived of my conscience and something's got to give  
Deprived of my conscience  
This all belongs to me, yeah

_Reviews are little Castiels that fly above our heads and mini Deans under the bed. A small Sam in hand and a tiny John by the chair, a review that can show how much you care._

_Artemis_


	2. Chapter 2

_I'm bad at actually posting fic when I say I will, aren't I? I didn't think I would get in tonight, but what can I say? I had a nice day in the sunshine and got a little bit of work done on the sequel to this one so it's all good._

_**I'm beaten down again, I belong to them  
Beaten down again, I've failed you  
I'm weaker now my friend, I belong to them  
Beaten down again, I've failed you**_

Castiel's days are becoming a blur of pain, fear, frustration and constant whispers on the edge of his mind, whispered threats and furtive calls, friends, allies, enemies and he cannot trust any of them, cannot contact them or communicate in any way because the only person that he really trusts, is in a position to trust, is Dean. He is not even certain that he _could_ contact his brethren anyway even were it safe to, because his grace, though still a part of him, is shattered within him. It is not working properly, slipping from his grasp each time he tries to use it and this terrifies him. Alone in this body without Jimmy's soul and memories to give him a tiny amount of guidance, he is lost, weak, and he does not like the sensation, does not like the _emotion_ that the torture seems to have unlocked. Emotions were once a temptation, something on the fringes of his awareness that he longed for, that he had indulged in only a couple of times in his existence and maybe _this_ is his punishment. Not the torture or the betrayal, the threats or denial, just the _emotions_, perhaps these are the _real_ punishment because in all the time he has been experiencing them he has never once felt something _good_, never once felt something nice, only fear, only pain, loneliness and abandonment, sorrow and despair.

He does not know how the humans do it, does not understand how they live their lives filled with such things. Does not understand why Dean is so desperate to save this world as he knows it with all the terrible sensations that he experiences, has experienced and that still await him, are waiting for Castiel now too and it is becoming harder and harder to hide these foreign feelings, to understand the source of them, of the shame. All because he cannot fix himself, cannot fix the body and cannot _bare_ to let Dean touch him, to let him _see_ just how broken he really is, how much everything hurts and it is not just the physical wounds that Dean can see, Castiel is injured in other ways too, even if the human cannot see them each time he argues the angel into submission. Which he always manages to do, one way or another, always gets his way and tends to the wounds he can see and asks without words about the ones that he cannot, he always gets his way, if not a completely truthful answer, and Castiel knows that it is because he is afraid, afraid that if he fights too hard or denies too much, Dean will leave him by the side of the road to fend for himself and _that_ fear shames him too, he _knows_ Dean is a better man than that, better than the both of them have really credited and better by far than the angel could ever hope to be.

Dean is better purely and simply because he has not failed his father, has not failed his destiny. No matter how hard he has been fighting against it, he now seems to have accepted it and acknowledged it and Castiel admires that. Admires the fact that Dean does not let his memories, dreams, _nightmares_ take over his life and destroy him. Even though he does not sleep at night, Castiel knows that his memories are close to doing just that, because though he does not need to sleep, at night, when his charges are lost in their own nightmares and dreams there is little for him to do other than dwell on events that have taken place. Events that flash before him and he cannot simply open his eyes and banish them to the deep, endless, recesses of his memory. In those dead hours, silent apart from the occasional whimper from his charges, keepers, guardians, sounds that both men will deny making when they wake, all he can do is remember. He reads, _tries_ to read, but finds that his concentration lapses, every little noise has him startling, his pilfered heart racing as the body reacts to the unfathomable emotions, each moment of fear bringing another memory with it, another flash of a blade, the crack of bones or the sizzle of burnt flesh and it takes all of his will for him to remain in the room with the Winchesters, where he knows he is safe, all of his will not to run into the night. He knows, _he knows_, that he is not coping with all of this, is not capable of handling it all alone but is afraid, so afraid, that if he speaks of it, expresses his failure, he will not be able to _stop_. Will not stop feeling, will not stop hurting, will not be able to heal regardless of speech, thought or aid. So he remains silent, fights the memories in a way that he has seen Dean do, with a stoic mask and bold faced lies. He knows it cannot continue forever.

It cannot continue because these emotions that he shows, that he feels when he should not, are beginning to break down all his walls, to break through his limited, pathetic defences, because he has never had to deal with something like this before and it is overwhelming him. He cannot stand to be touched, because each time calloused fingers brush against him whilst gently checking on still healing wounds, it reminds him of failure, reminds him of touches that had started out soft, soothing, and quickly turned into agony. Soft touches that remind him of just how broken, how trapped he is and it is that trapped feeling that has him gradually snapping and by the time Dean finds a place for them to hide, Castiel will be almost happy to not have to get back into the car again, will be almost happy to have a house to roam through at night rather than sit in an almost dark room alone but for the slumbering forms of the Winchesters. He cannot say that he will definitely be happy, because he does not truly know what happiness feels like. All he does know is that he is tired of being watched, tired of being touched like he will fall apart at any second and he does not want to have to be handling all that he is, does not want to do it alone, does not want to do it at all, so he runs, just grabs the coat that Dean has given him and walks out of the kitchen, hears Dean's raised objections, Sam's concerned words and ignores them. He needs to think, needs to be away, so he walks.

_**The deception you show is your own parasite  
Just a word of advice you can heed if you like  
And now I'm convinced on the inside that something's wrong with me  
Convinced on the inside you're so much more than me**_

_Reviews are little Castiels that fly above our heads and mini Deans under the bed. A small Sam in hand and a tiny John by the chair, a review_ _that can show how much you care._

_Artemis_


	3. Chapter 3

_And so this one ends as well. Yet the whole darn verse just keeps on going and going, there is a sequel to this one, Deify (shameless plug peoples) and the full master list is now on my profile, fortunately there is a plan, and an end. Unforunately it would seem that this verse has taken over my life. Thanks again go out to readers and reviewers and alerters!_

_**Yeah**_

_**I'm beaten down again, I belong to them  
Beaten down again, I've failed you  
I'm weaker now my friend, I belong to them  
Beaten down again, I've failed you**_

By the time Dean comes out of the house, Castiel is sat in the dirt outside staring up at the stars while his simple blue jacket flaps loosely behind him, doing nothing to keep him warm against a chill wind he does not really feel. The hex bag Dean gave him is still in the left pocket, it feels wrong, feels dirty in such close proximity to him, makes his stolen skin creep, crawling in a way that should no longer be strange to him, not after two weeks of carrying the bag, but it does, he hates it, does not believe he needs it, has told Dean as much, told Dean that he can take care of himself, does not need the hex bag to hide himself. The hunter insisted and Castiel, still afraid, still worried that a misstep will land him with no where to go and no one to turn to, agrees to carry it. Knows that it gives Dean peace of mind for him to carry it and at the moment Castiel needs Dean, needs that solidity and constant of one who has experienced torture similar to his own.

At first neither speaks, neither are the type to talk about what happened in the kitchen, the uncharacteristic burst of anger and frustration, and neither wants to discuss the implications there, because what that implies, the possibilities there, the doors that it opens that both know will never be closed, it scares them. There is a lot to say though, so many platitudes and promises to make things right, so many questions about how the other is coping, assurances and cares, circumstances being what they are, but just as they are not the sort to talk about emotional outbursts, Castiel not understanding them and Dean being less than comfortable with them, the angel even goes so far as to believe that the hunter views them as something of a weakness, is so desperate not to display them and yet, cannot help but show what he has been taught. He has been taught fear, he has been taught despair and anxiety, loathing and distaste, he has learnt nothing good. Except, perhaps, kindness. He has experienced that at the hands of these brothers, has witnessed the way that they treat others, friends, allies, strangers.

It is Castiel who breaks the silence first, not because he _wants_ to talk about what was done to him, not even because he _needs_ to, though some humans, he knows, would say that he should. He talks because the sound of a voice, even his own, makes he feel like he is not alone, talks because he knows that it will eventually draw a response from Dean beyond the crunch of the man joining him on the ground, and at the moment, any form of response will do. Any voice, any word, even his own, to distract him from the mutterings on the edge of his awareness, threats, pleas, calls, endless promises of safety and protection that he knows are made to be broken. There is so much that he can say, so much that should be said, but all he can find is three words.

"I am sorry." Beside him, in the dirt, he hears Dean shift, hears the dull clink of a bottle and a gruff noise of dismissal, even though neither is exactly certain what is being apologised for. Not sure if it is for being captured, for not fighting off the archangel, for putting Dean in this position where he has to care for a broken angel, for his outburst in the kitchen or for any one of a number of other little things during the last two weeks, for _everything_ that has happened. Yet Dean seems to have dismissed it as no apology necessary, takes a swig from the bottle of whatever it is that he has brought out with him, waits silently for Castiel to continue, his silence the only indication that he is _willing_ to listen and Castiel knows that even if Dean sometimes seems to have the attention span of a gnat, he is actually far better at listening than he lets on, has to be in order to do what he does.

After several more moments where the only sound is that of their breathing and the night, Castiel continues and Dean still listens in silence. He begins with the archangel, is almost calm, almost completely cool and collected, so like his old emotionless self that for moment he can fool himself into believing he is alright and there is little indication there of what is to come. He is still calm when he talks of the fight, of the blows rained upon him by brother and sister alike, the white of their fury and the agony they felt at his betrayal, the cold words of condemnation from Zachariah, the harsh announcement of his punishment, his _initial_ punishment. It is not until he speaks of Jimmy Novak that his voice cracks, his stoic mask wavers and he does not dare to look at Dean, does not want to look and see sympathy there, see pity, or perhaps condemnation, so he continues on and his voice trembles slightly as he tells of the days in the cell, the hours of simply hanging there and he feels cool glass pressed into his hands as Dean offers him a drink. Castiel accepts it, not because he thinks that it will help him or affect him, but because he knows that this is just the way that Dean is, that the liquid that burns and numbs as he swallows it is just Dean's way of showing support.

This, this is nothing, however, to the way that he breaks when he talks of Jael, of the younger angel's betrayal of him to Zachariah the first time that he was called back, the first time that Castiel realised just how far he had slipped. Jael who seemed to find such pleasure in hurting him. As he speaks he gets to his feet, paces, restless, frustrated, can tell Dean what was _done_ to him, but cannot say how it made, _makes_, him _feel_, was taught nothing but fear and anger, how to feel them, not how to express them, repress them, prevent them from taking over his existence as they have done. He understands now, understands how a man can be driven to become what he despised in life, cannot fathom how Dean lasted as long as he did, when Castiel was so ready to break so soon.

The bottle is almost dry now, and Castiel is almost at the end of his tether. This is all so much, too much, the emotions and the torture, Dean's quiet understanding and everything that bubbles so close to the surface and he wants to scream, scream at the Heavens, scream at Hell, at Lucifer, at Zachariah, at his _Father_. To ask why, to get answers, to break free of the restraints of this damaged mortal body and unleash the might of his true voice, his true form, to find out why his grace will not work as is should.

Dean watches him, silent, knows that if he speaks, if he opens his mouth to try and placate, to try and calm, Castiel, something in him will snap. So he watches and he listens, watches as the angel paces, can see that he is upset, listens to the rise and fall of his voice, the way that it cracks and breaks, sometimes a yell, more often a whisper, sees tears that the angel cannot acknowledge begin to form and still he keeps his distance because what more can he do? Castiel still shrinks away from any form of touch and Dean is so far from dealing with his time in Hell to be able to help another deal with their own torture. He can watch and he can listen and he is not surprised when Castiel turns to him for answers that both know he will not be able to give.

"Why?" Castiel demands, face contorted in an agony that is too stark, too new, an unknown expression on the face that used to be impassive, where expression seemed foreign and experimental. "What could they gain from this? What could it prove? What does it _achieve_, Dean?" He cannot answer, does not have one and he watches as Castiel demands and rages and waits until rage gives way to broken sobs, a sound that he has heard one too many times in those dreams of when Castiel was being tortured, sounds he does not ever want to hear again. When the angel sinks to his knees on the hard ground, Dean finally moves closer, kneels in the dirt beside his damaged angel and places a hesitant hand on his shoulder, to let Castiel know that he is there, that he understands all the pain and the doubt and the fear, the self loathing and the recriminations, the what ifs and the whys and he is helpless to stop this pain, helpless to aid him and he hates that it is this way, hates that he can do nothing while Castiel shatters before him and all for something that Dean wanted. When there is silence, when the sobs stop and they are once more surrounded by the sounds of their breathing and the night, they sit together, listening to nothing, and though it is far from comfortable and they are far from alright, Dean knows for the first time he has someone who can understand and who will not judge, and though all that makes things somehow _worse_, it gives him the tiniest glimmer of hope that maybe, possibly, he really will be alright, they both will, that maybe they can help to heal each other and that the three of them, Castiel, Sam and Dean, can win this war together.

The sound of heavy wings and an unfamiliar voice behind them shatters their fragile peace. "Castiel."

Or maybe not.

_**I'm beaten down again, I belong to them  
Beaten down again, I've failed you  
I'm weaker now my friend, I belong to them  
Beaten down again, I've failed you**_

I'm beaten down  
I'm beaten down  
I'm beaten down  
I'm beaten down

Yeah

_Reviews are little Castiels that fly above our heads and mini Deans under the bed. A small Sam in hand and a tiny John by the chair, a review_ _that can show how much you care._

_Artemis_


End file.
